


The Men They Become

by Aegrisomnia89



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-07
Updated: 2011-12-07
Packaged: 2017-10-27 01:43:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/290291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aegrisomnia89/pseuds/Aegrisomnia89
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Malik is not just a Dai, he is an assassin. When Altaïr seems to forget this, Malik decides to remind him of this heritage by returning to Jerusalem. When Altaïr follows, both men must discover where the other stands, as men, as friends, and as members of the Brotherhood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

Three long months.

That's how long it took for Masyaf to recover from the massacre resulting from Al Mualim's betrayal: three months dedicated to preparing burial rites for the fallen brothers, providing the proper care for their wives and children, rebuilding all that had been damaged, strengthening their defenses, and, most importantly, continuing to train the remaining and new novices.

Those who survived through Al Mualim's usurpation trained harder than ever, fueled by fierce determination and the desire to help reconstruct their homes and lives. Many more were spurred on by hatred and anger toward the very man they had trusted for so very long. They had every right to hate. They had every right to fear.

Altaïr did not, at first, wish for the title of Grandmaster. He would have preferred to remain a Master Assassin and leave the responsibility of overseeing an entire city and all its inhabitants to someone with more capable hands. He would have chosen Malik for this role, but the people spoke out against him. It was only fitting that their liberator should rule them, they shouted. It was right that Altaïr should lead them to future victories—after all, he was the one who led them to their greatest victory.

He had taken up the mantle of Grandmaster with great reluctance, encouraged mostly by the cries of the people,  _his_  people. He felt himself unworthy of the honor, but, within weeks, he changed so much there was little doubt in the minds of Masyaf's citizens of who could have done a better job than he. Perhaps the only man within all of Syria who felt Altaïr's leadership skills could be improved upon was Malik.

Promoted to head Dai after Altaïr's ascension, he had very little to complain for, though he tried his best. The relationship between him and Altaïr was strained, though they gained new footholds every day. Malik felt that, should he ever truly let go of his hatred for the other man, they could be great friends. That, of course, could never happen, not while Altaïr insisted on forcing his will upon others, the way he tended to do. It was one of his personality flaws Malik wished he could fix.

Their disagreements were often and loud, centered on trivial concerns, but important details nonetheless. Malik saw things one way, Altaïr, another. Stubborn, easily angered, and defiant to a fault, both men would often engage in physical blows until their anger drained. More often than not, they had to be forcefully separated. Those up to the task of pulling the warring men apart were few and far in between.

All of Masyaf seemed to cower beneath the force of the argument which raged between Altaïr and Malik now. The library had long since been evacuated for safety precautions, though some of the braver assassins kept vigil in the hall, hoping to overhear at least part of the heated argument.

However, the stone walls of the hallway and the high ceiling of the library prevented words from being distinguished from one another. Nothing  _interesting_ , at any rate. Behind the closed doors Malik faced off with Altaïr, standing across the room and itching to throw something heavier than a  _book_  at his thick head. He bristled with barely restrained rage, his stance rigid, back ramrod straight, and arm tense by his side. He  _dared_  Altaïr to say one more word, just  _one more word_.

"I  _forbid_  you from setting  _foot_  outside Masyaf," Altaïr growled, jabbing his finger at the floor as if grounding Malik's will down to nothing.

"You cannot cage me," Malik said through gritted teeth, clenching his fist tighter. "I am not a beast to be tied and stabled! To keep me from doing what little I can,  _especially_  in these transitional stages, is folly!"

Altaïr shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest, the very picture of adamant authority. His golden eyes were cold and hard, and his thin lips were drawn into an even thinner line, punctuated by the light scar at the edge of his mouth. He obviously had no plan to back down, even in the face of reason. Malik envisioned the largest tome possible and imagined it sailing toward Altaïr's face.

"Altaïr, you can't be serious," Malik said, running his hand through his unruly black hair. "It's foolish to keep me in Masyaf when there is such a shortage of men capable of taking on the assignments which need attending to! How many did we lose during Al Mualim's coup? Twenty? Thirty? More, perhaps? We don't have the luxury of picking and choosing who may go and who may not. I  _want_  to do this, Altaïr, I _need_  to do this!"

"No, you  _don't_ ," Altaïr responded, "and I have very good reason to keep you from taking this mission."

"And I wonder what  _that_  could possibly be," Malik snarled before Altaïr could even finish his sentence. "So what is it,  _Master_  Altaïr? That I am missing an arm? That I am unfit for duty as an assassin? If so, allow me to remind you whose fault my  _handicap_  falls upon!"

A shadow of hurt and guilt passed over Altaïr's face before he gained control of his expression and his response was every bit as cold and hard as his eyes.

"Nonetheless," he said, "you  _are_  unfit for active duty. You are too valuable to risk losing to the blade of a Templar. I refuse to allow you passage to Jerusalem."

Malik gave a frustrated cry and clenched his fist until he felt his fingernails dig deep into his flesh. Rage built up in his chest and he thought for just that moment he could honestly kill Altaïr and feel no remorse. To know the one man he had begun to consider a friend, perhaps even an ally, thought him too useless to carry out a relatively simple assassination hurt more than he cared to admit.

"So be it," Malik snapped, turning on his heel back to the bookshelves, determined to bury himself in deciphering the next volume of Al Mualim's private journals, perverse and corrupt as they were. He figured  _anything_  was better than looking at Altaïr's smug expression of triumph.

Had he chanced a backward glance, however, he would have seen Altaïr's look of self-loathing. Malik would have seen the way he clenched his fists and hung his head in shame. As it was, he ignored Altaïr's soft, "Forgive me, brother," and fairly ripped the book off the shelf, along with several unintended scrolls.

 _Insufferable bastard_ , Malik thought, after Altaïr slunk out of the room like a jackal with its prize of stolen meat. He set the book down and grabbed the stump of his arm, massaging the end thoughtfully as he considered proving Altaïr wrong and going to Jerusalem  _anyways_. Malik was not disobedient or rebellious, not in the way Altaïr used to be, but this fight, he felt, was the last straw. He was an assassin.

He was capable of taking on targets, even though he lacked his left arm. He knew his limits and he had long since compensated for his loss. So he couldn't scale a wall or pole as quickly as his brothers; there were always ladders and constructs of sorts nearby, and he was a swift runner. Riding a horse presented no obstacle, and the sword was still his weapon of choice in battle. Malik remained more skilled than Altaïr, even now. Just last week he had laid three novices and a master on their backs in the training grounds, one right after the other. And who could forget who had assisted Altaïr in reclaiming Masyaf?

Malik had fairly flown to his rescue and  _he_  wanted to keep Malik grounded. Well, not  _this_  time. Malik sat down at a table and pulled a fresh scroll toward him, dipped his quill in the inkwell and set the nib to parchment. He would translate a dozen or so pages, wait until Altaïr busied himself with the Apple—that damned, blessed mechanism—and then,  _then_  he would leave for Jerusalem.

By midday his satchel was packed: knives, food, a flask of water, his white robes, his sword and scabbard, and his most detailed map of Jerusalem. Malik also carried with him a careful copy of Altaïr's notes on the target. On his way to the stables outside the city, he reminded himself of the target's name, Almir: a young man, yet powerfully influential among those familiar and friendly to the ways of the corrupt Templars. His death would ensure peace in Jerusalem, at least for a short while.

Reaching the stables, Malik took a dark bay and ignored the sideways glance the stable master gave him. Holding fast to the saddle horn, he set his right foot in the stirrup and quickly leapt into the seat. The horse shifted easily and the stable master turned away, curiosity sated. Clicking his tongue and digging his heels into his mount's sides, Malik set off toward Jerusalem with the reins wrapped around his hand and peace in his heart.

He felt too much time had passed since he had last set out on an assassination and every stride of the horse was a breath of fresh air. He missed the sense of importance and responsibility, missed traveling to new lands and taking in new sights. He had not done much traveling since becoming Dai, and even less so since returning to Masyaf to assist Altaïr in reforming their ruined city.

Now, traversing over the rocky hills with a strong steed beneath him, Malik felt more like his old self. He inhaled deeply, breathing the fresh mountain air and the sweet smell of dates ripening on trees. He heard the calming sound of a bubbling stream and entertained the idea of bathing outside for the first time in months. What he wouldn't he have given for the leisure to do such. But, with the threat of Altaïr bearing down on him at any moment, he pressed onward.

The ride itself proved uneventful, but the trail which took him through the mountain pass led Malik through the abandoned outposts of Templars. He saw the muddy ground reddened with the blood of the dead, and the stench…. He wrinkled his nose as the source of the smell revealed itself: a large cart, drawn by two asses, piled with rotting bodies.

Two men with perfumed scarves tied around the bottom halves of their faces continued to locate bodies and haul them to the cart. Only a few months had passed since the siege of Masyaf, but to think that the bodies of Templar and Assassin brethren alike were still being found throughout the remains of scorched town made Malik feel ill. He pressed on, nudging his bay into an easy canter.

By the end of the day the gates of Jerusalem loomed within sight. Malik smiled wanly, clicked his tongue and steered his horse to the stables outside the city gates. Clothed in his black Dai robes, Malik had no trouble walking past the guards. He was virtually unnoticed. The Bureau had not changed from when Malik left, and he let himself in by way of the secret door at the back of the building. Navin, the new young Rafiq met him, a pleasantly shocked expression on his smooth face.

"Master Malik," he proclaimed, bowing halfway, "to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?"

"Safety and peace, brother," Malik replied, also bowing. "I'm here on assignment, actually."

The look on Navin's face was well worth the trouble he took to tell the truth about his reason for returning to Jerusalem. He obviously sided with the likes of Altaïr and the stable master back in Masyaf, and all those others who felt Malik incapable of seeing to his own business. Malik knew he would take great pleasure in proving all of them wrong.

"Not an assassination," Navin said, hiding his disbelief rather poorly. "Master Altaïr sent  _you_  to kill Almir? Truly?"

"Is it so hard to believe?" Malik retorted, his attitude very quickly turning from one of amusement to one of tired rebuke. "I am still an assassin, and am still able to wield a blade. Trust me, I am perfectly capable of taking Almir's contract."

Navin shrugged and gestured to the interior room of the Bureau where brothers normally rested before and after missions. Malik followed, grateful the subject was being dropped.

"Rest for a while," Navin suggested, taking Malik's saddlebag and eyeing the sword on his belt. "You will need your strength if you are to track Almir."

"Tell me what you know of him," Malik requested, settling amongst the pillows and thinking how strange it was to once again be on the receiving end of such instructions. Navin seated himself nearby and clasped his hands in front of him.

"He keeps to the poor district," he began, "where he is among friends. He is seen as a messiah, meant to inspire revolt against Saladin."

Malik's eyebrows arched in surprise; he had not known the situation to be so serious as to lead to the threat of an actual rebellion. Saladin's victory at Arsuf had guaranteed him Jerusalem as a stronghold, and though his militaristic background acted as the driving force behind most of his decisions, he was a just ruler.

"I thought the people approved of Saladin," Malik said, sounding his astonishment.

Navin shook his head.

"The people whose minds are not poisoned by Almir's mad ravings do," he said, "but there are many within the poor district and Saladin fears an uprising. He does not want for a great show of force. He has already proven his might by defeating King Richard at Arsuf. Now, with rebuilding the government, he has much to worry about…too much for him to further agonize about one man. That is why he requests Almir be taken out as swiftly and silently as possible—once the head of the dragon is slain, the body will become harmless."

"Or," Malik mused, "like the hydra it will sprout more heads and with them, more reason to fight."

"Let us hope and pray not," Navin said, though the threat of such an event was very real.

Malik shrugged and yawned, suddenly very tired. He had ridden all day long and was exhausted. Navin bid him good night and promised more complete information in the morning. The pillows were soft and cool, the rug thick and comfortable—a breeze drifted through the open roof and Malik soon fell asleep as easily as he had when he was a younger man, a newer assassin, fresh from the ranks of novices and completely confident in his abilities.


	2. 2

The early morning found Malik crouched on a rooftop overlooking an open market in front of a small mosque. The day was cool and the light of the sun not yet harsh. The marketplace teemed with people and animals, women and children, men bartering with one another for barley, pottery, spices, and bolts of cloth. The narrow streets were crowded and hazy with dirt kicked up by hundreds of feet, but above the rooftops the air was clear.

Malik's sharp eyes scanned the crowd, searching for the distinct blue turban of Ezekiel, a man carrying a letter intended for Almir, explaining how the Hebrews wished to overthrow Saladin themselves. The letter also held a small map detailing a location Almir was to meet with a member of the Knights Templar. Malik wished to make his kill there, eventually, once he was able to scout the area. The sooner he did that, the better—an escape route was an absolute necessity, since he no longer had the option of scaling the walls like a lizard.

Spotting Ezekiel moving toward a large fountain, Malik climbed down a ladder he had used to access the roofs and pulled his white hood up, a sharp thrill racing through him at the anonymity the garment afforded him. Exiting the alleyway, he blended with the crowd, weaving between men and gently pushing women, children, and old men out of his way.

He glanced around the closer he got to Ezekiel, making sure no one saw his hand as he reached for the pouch hanging by his target's belt. He was so close he could smell the sweat beading on the back of the man's neck. Malik reached for the curl of paper peeking out from the pouch; he brushed the scroll and he took hold of it between two fingers, withdrawing it from the pouch.

Malik turned around and walked away from Ezekiel, tucking the scroll into his belt. He could not stop the smile from spreading across his face. Pick pocketing came as easily as it had in his youth. The technique never really left one's memory, and it never changed, unless one was adventurous.

He continued to grin and turned down the next alleyway he came across, not waiting to hear the strangled curses as Ezekiel realized the letter was missing. Some assassins waited. Some enjoyed the expressions on their targets' faces, and some liked to play, liked to see if they could be caught. Malik cared for neither, never had…but his pride swelled at the  _thought_. The thought pleased him very much.

He hurried farther down the alley until he came upon a private garden with an unlocked gate. Malik let himself in and rested against the wall, drawing the letter from his belt and reading it over. Ah, good, he knew of the location, well within the middle district and an area he had personally mapped out many times before. He didn't even think he'd have to scout the area, though he knew he would anyways, to be on the safe side.

The letter continued to detail now many guards the Templar would have with him (two or three at the most, but no less), what time the meeting was to take place (just before nightfall, when the shadows were most useful), and whether or not Almir should bring his own guards (of course he should, but they shouldn't let the Templar know this).

Satisfied, Malik tucked the letter away again and prepared for a long day of gathering information. One of the last stops was an informant who, bless him, didn't so much as glance at the empty sleeve pinned to Malik's shoulder. Eyes met eyes, soft words were exchanged, and Malik left feeling more confident than ever. By the time he made it back to the Bureau the sun was already sinking beneath the horizon and shops were closing down, people turning in for the night—but Malik was just beginning to feel truly  _alive_  again, for the first time since he became a Bureau leader.

 _This is what I was raised to do_ , he told himself,  _ **this** __is what is_ _ **right**_.

He let himself into the back room of the Bureau, the room he occupied when he lived there, thinking a decent night's sleep would be all he needed. It took him a slow moment to realize he wasn't the only person within the room; even then, he automatically knew who was there, for only another assassin would have been able to escape his notice, and only one man cared enough to come all the way to Jerusalem to stalk him.

 _Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad_.


	3. 3

"I have nothing to say to you," Malik said, lowering the latch to lock the door. "You have no business here."

"Haven't I?" Altaïr hissed, stepping closer, his features too shadowed in the dark for Malik to make out an expression. He knew Altaïr was, of course, furious.

"If either of us has not the right to be here," Altaïr continued, "then it is  _you_. Did I not explicitly demand you remain in Masyaf? Did my words fall upon deaf ears?"

"I am not deaf," Malik sighed, "but I am also not as useless as you think I am."

"And you felt the need to prove such to me by directly disobeying my wishes? Traveling to Jerusalem on your own? No word as to  _why_? Your assassin's robes missing? Do you take me for a fool?"

"I am not a child!" Malik snapped, turning to face Altaïr. "You act as if I am incapable of mounting a horse on my own, let alone travel to Jerusalem! What right do you have to treat me like I am your  _wife_?" Altaïr stepped forward, a low growl on the edge of his voice. Malik stood his ground, clenching his fist by his side. He sensed a fight about to take place, and by Allah, he'd be ready for it.

"You deliberately defied me," Altaïr said. "You could have  _died_."

"But I have not, as you can see."

"That's not the point, damn you!"

"Let the only damning here be the damning of your foolishness. I am a man, Altaïr, not a child. I know the way of the Creed better than most and am aware of the risks I take. This was  _my_  decision! Let it remain so."

Altaïr's hand shot forth and grabbed a handful of Malik's robes, dragging him forward. Malik immediately grabbed onto Altaïr's wrist and attempted to wrench him off, but he was too strong.

"Release me!" Malik snarled.

"You are so ignorant as to why I'm here," Altaïr breathed, pulling Malik closer still. Their bodies collided and Malik flinched, expecting to be shoved back, or struck, but instead he felt hot breath on his cheek and the solid weight of a grown man pressed flush against him.

"Altaïr, what—"

He was cut off by a pair of rough lips covering his own and another hand around the back of his neck so he couldn't pull away. The press of Altaïr's body suffocated him, harsh and insistent. He felt buried beneath the barely restrained aggression behind the kiss. Malik squirmed, unable to breath and wanting nothing more than to strike Altaïr. He managed to break the kiss by twisting his head to the side; his fist came up a moment later, his knuckles connecting with Altaïr's jaw and sending him reeling. Harsh curses sliced through the stale air of the room and Malik groped for the latch of the door.

"I don't know what madness has overcome you," he panted, looking to escape, "but I swear, if you refuse to leave me be  _now_ , I will—"

"I will  _not_  leave!" Altaïr yelled, taking a step forward. Malik imagined his golden eyes as two shining pinpricks in the darkness and shuddered at the intensity he felt from the gaze leveled at him. "I cannot lose you again," Altaïr continued in a softer voice.

"What?"

"I cannot…I couldn't stand it, Malik, to lose you."

Altaïr's voice was pained in a way Malik had heard only a couple times before, when they were both boys. The unnaturalness of it bade him to be quiet and listen, for it wasn't often Altaïr expressed his emotions.

"I don't understand you," Malik said, "first you berate me for leaving and then you—you  _kiss_  me as if we're—as if I'm your  _woman_ , and now you're telling me…what? That I'm too valuable to you? Is that it?"

"I tried to tell myself that my reason behind keeping you in Masyaf was because of your arm," Altaïr sighed deeply. "I tried justifying myself by letting you believe I thought you incapable. Truth be told, I was just being selfish."

"Selfish," Malik repeated, breathless. He could scarcely believe the words coming out of Altaïr's mouth, they sounded so unlike his normal self.

"Selfish," Altaïr confirmed. "I wanted to keep you close by so I could keep you safe. I wanted to ensure you would never meet with any harm. I still hold myself responsible for Solomon's Temple. I will not allow such a thing to happen again."

Malik's heart pounded in his chest. Altaïr drew closer still and the heat emanating from his body was stifling, enough to make Malik sweat. He was so close and suddenly his hands were on Malik's shoulders, squeezing comfortingly. It was so damned hot…

"I have never heard anything else more asinine," Malik hissed, defensive, trying to throw off one of Altaïr's hands. "How did you plan on keeping me from harm, when we are part of a brotherhood of assassins and  _especially_  when you know how well I enjoy sparring? Did you plan on bandaging every little scratch I obtain?"

"I would rather tend to wounds my hands are capable of mending," Altaïr returned icily, "than watch you die from a wound they are  _not_."

"Then remove your hands and bandage my honor, my pride!" Malik finally yelled, tired of trying to remain calm when he really felt like screaming. " _You_  wound me, more than sword or arrow is capable. Every time you treat me as an invalid, every time you tell me I cannot do, cannot help, cannot act as I was  _trained_ , my whole life, same as you! It  _hurts_ , Altaïr!"

His voice broke. He couldn't continue on anymore. He wanted Altaïr gone, wanted him to leave so he could sleep. Malik could play this game no longer and yet Altaïr refused to back down. He stood there, his hands still tightly clamped about his shoulders, his thumbs moving in small circles, comforting where comfort was not wanted.

"Forgive me," Altaïr said, "forgive me, brother, I never knew."

"How could you not?" Malik replied, his tone anguished. "How could you not know how I felt, believing you thought me to be less than a man, or as a man incapable of making the least bit of difference with his work? My duties are but humble, easy, yes, enjoyable—why is it you refuse to let me do more? I am  _capable_ —"

"I  _know_  you are," Altaïr interrupted, moving one heavy, gloved hand to cup Malik's cheek, "I know, and that is why I fear losing you! All it takes is one well aimed arrow, one lucky strike…and I cannot do this on my own…running Masyaf, upholding the Creed, and researching that damned Piece…I need you."

"So now the high and mighty Master of Masyaf admits his weakness," Malik mocked, slapping Altaïr's hand away from his face. "He is afraid of failure, of being seen less than perfect. That is why you wish to keep me around, why you claim to  _need_  me. Me, because I am  _imperfect_. Because I remind you of your superiority."

"To remind me of my follies!" Altaïr cried, clenching his fist around air, wanting to touch Malik but knowing he did not wish to be touched. "Because I fear being left  _alone_  with these responsibilities I am not yet ready to take! I am superior to you only in rank, and unfairly so at that! You know this."

"What do you want from me?" Malik yelled, grabbing Altaïr's wrist again and attempting to push him away.

"I want  _you_ , alive and well, free to pursue your desires without the threat of danger! Why is it so wrong for me to want to see you safe?"

"Because you impose your desires on me the same way you force your person. You do not stop to think of how your words affect others, or how they may feel. Maybe I don't  _want_  to be safe."

"You would have me spend countless sleepless nights waiting for your return, worrying when you took too long and sent no word?"

"Hypocrite! You'd do well to eat your words now, Ibn-La'Ahad, before I force them down your throat! When have you  _ever_  sent word after making a kill to ensure  _anyone_  that you were well? I owe nothing to you!"

"It is different when I—"

"Oh, of course, many pardons,  _O Great One_ , I forget that you, being whole, cannot  _possibly_  be held accountable for small, trifling things."

"No, because I—Allah! You infuriate me!"

Those hot, brash lips descended again, teeth clattering against teeth as each man fought against the other. Malik felt trapped once more, but this time welcomed Altaïr's violent tongue, admitting the muscle into his mouth and biting down in retaliation to harsh words. He was no cripple, no invalid. He could hold his own and he would prove it, he would  _make_  Altaïr see that he could not be made to blindly follow.

"You are still too proud to admit your faults," Malik gasped, breaking the kiss only to renew it with vigor. Altaïr moaned his response, his hands tangled in Malik's robes, pulling him closer. "You hold yourself to a different set of—ah—standards as if you are better than I."

"I have always thought of you as my equal,  _habibi_ ," Altaïr groaned, corralling his passion before it grew out of control.

"You call me that as if you mean it," Malik said, "but words are not enough to turn me believer, not when you refuse me my rights not only as a man, but as a member of our brotherhood."

"No," Altaïr moaned, pushing Malik against the door and kissing his neck, "no, I have never meant anything more!" He kissed again, tongue running over smooth, brown skin as he suckled at the joint of Malik's neck and shoulder.

"Prove it then," Malik moaned, clawing at Altaïr's hood, trying to remove it from his face. "Prove yourself! Allow me to finish my mission!"

Altaïr didn't answer, tried to kiss Malik once more but the Dai was ready this time. He wrapped his arm around Altaïr's neck and hooked his leg behind an ankle, twisting around to force Altaïr to his knees.

"I am in no mood to entertain you," Malik said, grabbing a handful of Altaïr's hair to keep his head down. Altaïr grabbed at Malik's wrist, trying to pry him off, but the position he sat in didn't allow him the strength or the maneuverability to do much of anything. Malik was strong as well, even with only one arm at his disposal. Altaïr put his hands on Malik's thighs as he moved to stand in front of him, palms sliding against cloth and flesh, creating delicious friction.

Malik watched Altaïr's subservient expression, full of humbleness and raw want, and felt a surge of power race through him. That first kiss had shocked him and he hadn't known how to react; the second was more compliant, for he realized that if Altaïr wanted to bed him, he could use that knowledge to his own advantage. What better way to get what one wanted than to blackmail another? Altaïr would deny him  _nothing_  after this.

"You wish to please me so badly," Malik said, tightening his grip on Altaïr's hair and forcing his head back, "then allow me to finish what I've started. Go back to Masyaf, to your people, and wait for my return."

"I can think of other ways to please you," Altaïr said, his voice a mere whisper, husky and lust laden. As palms slid up his thighs to pull at his pants ties, Malik realized how utterly desperate he was to keep him there. Desperate…but there was also an expression in Altaïr's eyes he could not ignore.

It was a look of so much longing and desire,  _honest_  desire he almost felt flattered. Altaïr, Master and Eagle of Masyaf, wanted  _him_ , Malik A-Sayf, the one-armed Dai. Altaïr truly looked as if he'd do anything for the chance to lay with him, and Malik decided to go through with his earlier idea. He did not protest when Altaïr pulled his pants down to his knees.

"You want me?" Malik asked, his grip beginning to turn into a caress.

"Yes," Altaïr said, his hand already on the soft length of Malik's manhood, "I care for you, more than anything." As if to prove this statement, he leaned forward and ran his hot, wet tongue along Malik's shaft.

"If you cared for me," Malik said, holding in a soft gasp, his hand clenching in Altaïr's hair, "then you would allow me to do what I want."

Altaïr didn't answer, was too busy placing his lips and tongue against Malik's prick, kissing and licking like a woman but more aware of certain pleasure points. Malik felt himself begin to grow hard beneath the ministrations and leaned against the door frame, tugging on Altaïr's hair, forcing his face to press further against his groin.

"Don't ignore me!" he said.

Altaïr looked up, his golden eyes shining in the darkness. Malik could barely make out his profile, but felt a four-fingered hand clench around his length. The sudden tightness forced a noise out of him not unlike a yelp and he quickly covered Altaïr's hand with his own, as if to push him away again. Altaïr chuckled.

"If I am ignoring you now," he said, "then I will render you speechless by the time I actually start paying attention."

"Does your arrogance know no bounds?" Malik asked. He was glad for the cover of darkness about them, otherwise Altaïr would have seen the way his skin flushed at the promise. Rendered speechless indeed. He was no virgin, he had more control over himself than that.

"Let me prove myself to you," Altaïr said, clenching his hand gently. His mouth was so near Malik felt each exhale as a breath of hot air against his privates and he thought for a moment the intense curling sensation within the pits of his stomach was desire…or nerves. Whichever it turned out to be, he didn't care—Altaïr would finish what he started, just as Malik would once the sun rose.

"There is an oil lamp on the shelves," Altaïr said, breaking Malik's train of thought. "I saw it when I first arrived. Let me light it, so I can continue."

"You need no light to see," Malik whispered back, though those words sent a thrill racing through him.

"I want to see  _you_."

"What about Navin? He is—"

"Gone. I sent him on an errand for the evening. He won't return tonight."

Altaïr rose to his feet and left Malik's side; cold air immediately filled the unoccupied space and Malik shuddered, clutching his pants to his groin and shuffling noiselessly to the bed. He would lay with Altaïr tonight, he decided, and while he had the other deep within the thralls of passion he would force him to grant the permission needed to complete the assignment of Almir's death. Then, afterwards…he would see.

That Altaïr expressed his attraction so well was of no consequence to Malik, who was, by nature, suspicious of the intentions of others and saw little point to empty words and actions which could not be backed by genuine feeling. Altaïr  _said_  he cared, and made love with his tongue and lips most convincingly, but neither was good enough for Malik, who did not know how to feel.

Tomorrow night then, after Almir's blood dried on his hands,  _then_  Malik would address this particular issue. For now, however, Altaïr managed to light the wick in the oil lamp, bathing the room in a soft, warm glow and casting sharp shadows against the walls.

"It will burn for a few hours," he stated, turning back around. Malik slipped his Dai's robes off, letting them fall to the floor in a heap. He met Altaïr's hungry gaze with an equally fiery look, holding his hand out and curling his fingers to his palm.

"Approach then," he ordered softly.


	4. 4

Altaïr crossed the room in an instant, grabbed him, and kissed him. Malik wrapped his arm around Altaïr's neck and tilted his head to the side, mouth and tongue working against another. His lips were demanding yet soft; the kiss itself was not sweet. It was not neat, it was not proper. It was passionate, wet, and aggressive, exactly the kind of kiss Malik might have expected of Altaïr.

Briefly, he wondered if Altaïr had kissed other men before him, for there was a novice quality to his technique that gave him away, but then Malik felt a hand on his stomach, pushing his tunic up and sliding low to where his pants hung loose around his hips. That insistent hand slid through the soft black hair trailing from his stomach to his groin, fingers scissoring around the thick base of Malik's shaft, just only semi-hard.

Malik choked into Altaïr's mouth. The hand was rough and sword-calloused, but the touch was warm and welcome. Malik broke the kiss again to watch Altaïr's hand.  _Altaïr's_  hand. Not some woman, not his own, but the current Master of Masyaf's, the savior of their people.

"Altaïr," Malik said, trying not to sound breathless, "I want to feel m-more than—ooh—your hand."

"What would you have me do?" Altaïr whispered, pressing his stubbled cheek into Malik's neck.

Malik smirked and replied, "Use your mouth again. Get me wet. But first, finish undressing me."

"So demanding."

"So that you may know how it feels."

Altaïr's glance was reproachful and sharp, but he did as he was told, undoing the ties on Malik's tunic and slipping the thin white garment off to bunch to the floor. The red sash around his waist followed suit before he sat down on the edge of the bed to lift a leg, offering his boot to Altaïr, who wrestled it free within seconds. Naked before much longer, Malik reclined against the bed with a self-satisfied grin, propped up on his elbow. Altaïr made to straddle him, but was stopped with a quick shake of the head.

"I won't share a bed with anyone who looks to use me while still clothed," Malik said. "Disrobe. But  _slowly_."

The sense of power he felt as Altaïr did as he was told made Malik dizzy. This was different from giving orders to novices, who were expected to obey the word of a master. He didn't expect Altaïr to comply so easily, like an inferior. But continue Altaïr did, refusing to break eye contact as he shed his weapons and robes until he stood before Malik naked and wanting.

He cast a cold, appraising look over the body presented to him, marking puckered scars and distorted skin, golden-tanned flesh, and a dusting of fair hair across the broad expanse of chest and muscled stomach. His eyes followed the trail of hair as it thickened around Altaïr's slowly swelling erection, and he focused on the organ for a moment before gently teasing Altaïr.

"It seems," Malik smirked, "as if you are more eager than I…well, kneel then. I want to watch you pleasure me,  _novice_."

"Yes,  _Master_ ," Altaïr mocked, and his address sent another thrill through Malik that made his member jerk.

Altaïr stepped forward and lowered himself to his knees between Malik's spread legs, taking his shaft in hand. The first touch of wet tongue to the head of his prick made Malik inhale deeply with a low groan. It felt  _good_. He caressed Altaïr's head, petting him, sliding his fingers though short cropped hair and tugging him closer.

Altaïr wrapped his lips around Malik's organ, sucking hard until his cheeks hollowed and pressing his tongue to the underside of the shaft and trying to watch Malik's expression all at the same time. Malik didn't know where Altaïr learned to pleasure a man so, but he found himself jealous of that teacher.

"Ahh," Malik moaned, "yes, yes… Ah-ah-Altaïr!"

Spurred by the sound of his name on the Malik's lips, Altaïr groaned and took as much of his shaft into his mouth as he could. His right hand worked his own hard length furiously, getting himself ready and slick. It was when he pulled away to spit into his palm that Malik realized what he was doing and sat up.

"No," he said sharply, "your focus is  _me_. If you must touch something, then touch  _me_."

"But I must prepare mys—"

"You are preparing  _me_ ," Malik interrupted with a narrowed gaze. Altaïr blinked, his golden eyes widening as he realized what Malik implied.

"But I have n-never—," he stuttered, shaking his head before Malik cut him off once more.

"Then tonight will be a night of firsts, for the both of us."

"But that isn't—"

" _I said_  I will be your first. Did my words fall upon deaf ears?"

Altaïr clamped his mouth shut as the familiarity of the words pierced him. This was punishment, then, as he understood Malik's smug expression. Malik watched realization come to Altaïr and bit back a laugh. Yes, this was how it was supposed to be, and this was what he wanted to see: Altaïr on his knees, uncertain and humiliated, forced to know what it felt like to be the one taking all the hits. Somehow, this was  _right_.

Working his fingers behind Altaïr's ear, Malik pulled sharply, bring those scarred lips close to his prick again. Altaïr wasted little time sticking his tongue out and making Malik groan; he had more of a stake in this night than he had planned for, and thus paid diligent attention to Malik's manhood. Several minutes passed by with the only sound in the room being the noise of Altaïr's wet sucking and Malik's heavy groans.

Shortly thereafter, when Malik could no longer stand the wet heat of Altaïr's mouth, he beckoned him onto the bed. Altaïr leapt up, pushing Malik back and kissing him, exerting what small control he could. Malik felt fingers join the insistent tongue before replacing it completely. Altaïr sat back and looked down, his expression neutral as he worked three fingers against the inside of Malik's cheek.

"Get them wet," he whispered, and his voice held a note of pleading, one Malik could scarcely dare to refuse. He sucked dutifully, running his tongue along and between digits, coating them in his saliva until Altaïr withdrew them. His expression was exquisite as he reached behind himself, all intense concentration and expectant of pain and pleasure. Malik could tell from the way Altaïr closed his eyes and clenched his jaw that he had found his entrance and was stretching himself. And he was doing it because Malik had  _ordered_  him to.

Malik pushed himself up and pressed his lips to Altaïr's chest, kissing and nipping at dusky skin, grazing over a bronzed nipple which elicited a soft gasp. Malik took the small bud of flesh between his teeth, teasing with his tongue and biting until the other cried out.

"M-Malik," Altaïr gasped, his free hand cupping the back of Malik's head, "ah! Yes, do that again…unh, that f-feels—ah, Allah!"

Such praise, as scarcely heard from Altaïr's lips, and directed at his actions,  _his_  actions! Malik's head swam from the combination of power and lust, and his hand crept around Altaïr's manhood as a reward, to pump him hard and fast in return for more of those delicious sounds.

"M—alik," Altaïr choked, " _Malik_."

"Hurry," he panted, raking his teeth against Altaïr's skin, "hurry, before this is over too soon!"

Altaïr did as he was bid, removing his still slick fingers from his rear and groping for Malik's erection. He pressed himself close, arching his back as he positioned himself, and Malik took the opportunity to wrap his arm low around Altaïr's hips, grabbing a handful of taut flesh and kneading slowly.

Altaïr moaned as he began to seat himself, the thick head of Malik's shaft stretching him more than two of his fingers. He cursed, flushing with pain, but refused to stop. He moved so slowly, wanting to move faster for the other's sake but unable to for the pain. Malik grit his teeth as he felt his length enveloped in the tight passage, inch by inch until he could scarcely stand it.

"Altaïr…," he groaned, his tone almost threatening as he shifted about, attempting to bury himself deeper.

"P-patience," Altaïr stuttered before finally easing himself into Malik's lap. Both men panted heavily, clutching each other in the soft lamplight of the room. It seemed if either of them was to begin moving the end would be reached before they were ready.

Malik, for his part, began to wish that no end would come, ever. He enjoyed the foreign sensation of Altaïr impaled on his prick, more than he had thought he would. At Altaïr's soft, ghosting kisses across his forehead and encouraging whispers, Malik felt he could forgive all earlier transgressions against him.

"You're so thick," he heard Altaïr's mumble against his temple, and the absurdity of  _that_  phrase coming from  _Altaïr_  made Malik laugh.

"You talk too much," he said, tilting his head back for another kiss, which he was learning to enjoy.

Altaïr wrapped his muscular arms around Malik's neck and intensified the kiss, sitting up on his knees to allow Malik's manhood slip out of him a couple inches. The friction caused a low moan to slink from Malik's throat, but Altaïr caught it with his lips and sat back again, teasing. The pressure was awful, exquisite, and as much as he told himself he was only doing this to get what he wanted, he couldn't help but want more.

"Move, damn you," Malik cursed, forcing his lips from Altaïr's.

"Who is the tyrant now?" Altaïr replied smugly, moving his hips again, lifting and dropping back down on Malik's erection in a lilted, clumsy way which belied his inexperience.

Malik leaned back on his elbow, slack-jawed from pleasure and watching Altaïr's weeping length bob up and down. Altaïr's moans increased as his rhythm steadied and strengthened; soon, Malik moaned his name loudly enough to stroke his abused ego back to its proper place. He thought little of assassinations or Almir or of his earlier arguments.

"Fasteeer," he groaned, feeling a tightening in his loins which signaled release.

"Meet me," Altaïr responded in a gasp, hovering above Malik, one hand pinching a nipple while the other splayed flat on Malik's chest. Malik snarled but scooted forward until he felt stone floor beneath his feet; using his elbow for leverage he arched his back and lifted his buttocks off the bed, thrusting upward and causing Altaïr to hiss in pleasure.

"Ah, ah, ah!" Altaïr cried with each forceful thrust that rocked him, his fingers dancing over his own chest, through the trail of hair leading from his stomach down to his hardness.

"Faster," he ground out, "harder!"

Malik huffed as he snapped his hips off the bed in compliance. Seeing Altaïr run his hand over his erection, slowly worshipping his neglected length, made Malik realize how close the other was. Had he waited any longer, he'd have missed his chance, the entire purpose for bedding Altaïr. Then where would he be? He'd look like a fool and no better than the harem women.

Malik leaned back on his shoulders, raised a hand to run over Altaïr's torso, and asked in hesitating speech, "Will you…grant me—hn! Ah, grant me per—mission…to—ah—take Almir's life?"

Altaïr didn't answer, didn't appear to even have  _heard_  Malik until the thrusts slowed. Altaïr's fierce, golden eyes snapped open and a whine worked its way free from his lips.

"Why stop?" he moaned, petulantly rocking against Malik as a youngster attempts to make a pony walk when his feet do not reach the stirrups.

"Promise me something," Malik panted, beginning to sit up. Altaïr met him halfway, cupping his whiskered jaw.

"Anything," he whispered fervently, imparting open mouthed kisses on Malik's lidded eyes and brow.

"Promise me Almir's life."

"Yes, Allah, whatever you desire—just  _move_! I'm so close!"

"I have your word?"

"Now and forever,  _please_ , Malik!"

Satisfied and triumphant, Malik fell back on the bed and resumed his passionate, needful thrusting. He also reached for Altaïr's member, grasping and roughly squeezing to draw one last cry from him. Altaïr leaned back on his hands, undulating his hips against Malik's groin and hand. He groaned freely, fire pooling in his loins—with Malik pumping his length, Altaïr soon spent himself all over his hand and stomach.

"Argh!" he cried out, clutching the bed sheets in one hand and Malik's leg in the other. Sated, he then slumped his shoulders, panting as Malik wiped his hand clean on a nearby pillow.

"If you think you are done," he said, an edge to his tone that was as sharp and biting as a dagger tip, "then you are sorely mistaken."

"I am aware," Altaïr sighed, dismounting Malik's hips to curl on the side of the bed. Gently cupping Malik's quivering member, Altaïr pressed greedy lips to the underside of the shaft, sucking and nipping to bring release. Malik groaned, raising a leg and pressing his palm to his forehead. He was so close, almost there! Altaïr, sensing this, cupped his sac and squeezed slowly as he swallowed Malik's length once more.

"Unh," Malik grunted, biting his fist to stop a particularly loud, obnoxious moan from making its way out. He wanted to finish more than anything—he was almost there when Altaïr bit down on the head of his prick. Malik shoved Altaïr away with his foot and took his length in hand, pumping furiously with a tight-lipped expression. He came with a relieved groan, his issue mixing with Altaïr's on his stomach.

"Ah," he breathed, head falling back onto a pillow, "Altaïr…"

"I'm here," Altaïr responded, amused. He leaned over Malik and placed a kiss on his open mouth, sidling up close.

"Tell me," he gently prompted, "I'm listening."

Malik shook his head and smiled, the first time Altaïr had seen him do so in a long time.

"It is nothing," Malik said, giving Altaïr a half-lidded gaze. "I'm simply tired from today's tasks, and now, this…"

"Sleep then," Altaïr chuckled, "we will talk come morning."

Malik feared reminding Altaïr of the promise forced out of him. He feared Altaïr's rebuke, feared him explaining why the promise didn't count…most of all he feared what Altaïr might do in order to stop him from killing Almir.

So, instead of saying anything, Malik accepted one last kiss and rolled onto his side, his hand beneath his head and Altaïr at his back. He felt a strong arm drape over his waist as Altaïr took a possessive position behind him. Sleep, though much desired, did not come easily that night.


	5. 5

Morning, on the other hand, came much too soon. As usual, Malik rose right after the sun and quietly gathered his robes together. Without waking Altaïr, he dressed himself in assassin garb, leaving his Dai robes folded on the end of the bed. When Altaïr finally woke and saw them, he would know where Malik had gone. It felt wrong to leave like this, sneaking and stealing away without word. Ridiculous, though. Still, before he left, Malik pressed his knuckles against Altaïr's cheek, feeling the scratch of stubble and remembering his fiery kisses.

 _If he cares_ , Malik told himself,  _he won't interfere_.

After the assassination, if Altaïr kept his promise, they would talk.

Malik spent most of the morning trying not to think about Altaïr and planning his escape from the small courtyard where Almir's death would take place. There were no ladders leading to the roofs, no boxes or crates to make use of, no scaffolding he could employ. The evening crowd would be useful, of course, but Malik craved the safety of the roofs he knew so well.

Without the advantage of higher ground he knew he ran the risk of being captured or killed. Or worse, Altaïr would swoop down to rescue him from pursuing guards. The thought brought a bad taste to Malik's mouth; he wouldn't be able to stomach the indignity should such an embarrassment occur. He decided he'd find a secure way from the courtyard without the help of the roofs. There were plenty of alley ways to duck down; he would start there.

Midday passed by quickly, with Malik resting on a bench and eating a sparse meal of bread and fish. He tried to keep his mind from wandering back to Altaïr, but he couldn't help but wonder if the other man was angry. Surely he was awake by now…

 _Stop it_ , he thought sternly,  _stop distracting me. Even now, in my thoughts, really Altaïr._

Still, his heart began to pound the more he thought about his brother assassin stepping in, taking Almir's life from him. If he did…

Malik napped on the bench for the remainder of the day, periodically lifting his head and opening his eyes to check his surroundings. Once he thought he saw movement atop the roof of a basket weaver's home. Thinking is was Altaïr, Malik tensed and made to stand, but fell back into his seat when he saw not the white hood of a fellow assassin, but the bow-tip of an archer. Cursing, he glanced around the courtyard, counting off each man he noticed. One, two, three…six. Six men in all, with bows, swords, and Allah knew what else.

Malik curled his hand into a fist. It appeared Almir decided to bring along his own guards after all. Malik slowly got to his feet, yawned, stretched, and discreetly made his way to the nearest side street. He couldn't afford to attract the slightest bit of negative attention now, with Almir's eyes surrounding the courtyard. The only thing to do was take the archers out before the meeting—with any luck, Almir would assume his men had hid themselves.

Due to the lack of ladders and crates, Malik took longer than expected to make it to the roofs, and even longer to make it back to his chosen post. All six archers already stood vigil, each man holding his bow cocked with a deadly arrow. Malik crouched behind a rooftop garden to watch the closest man and wait for the chance to attack. The hardest part was making sure the other five men didn't witness the kill.

The guard paced back and forth, peering down into the courtyard and muttering to his self every so often. He didn't look much older than twenty, or so Malik thought when he caught a glimpse of the man's face. A second look made Malik lower his guess to about sixteen. If Almir was recruiting  _children_ …the situation may have been more serious than anyone anticipated.

Malik waited until the boy's back was turned before sneaking up with drawn dagger. The boy had no chance to scream before Malik cut his throat. Hot blood streamed down his neck and chest, darkening his clothes as Malik laid him down to rest. He closed the unseeing eyes and whispered a short prayer for his soul. It gave Malik no pleasure to end the life of a child, but it was necessary for the mission to meet with success.

He left the body behind the roof garden and slowly made his way to his next target. This archer was older, experienced, and very wary. He looked around as if he expected trouble to fall out of the sky—to be fair, when one dealt with assassins, trouble often  _literally_  fell out of the sky.

Malik lay low, crouching on a ledge beneath the roof's edge and peeking over the top when the sound of footsteps grew faint. He waited ten minutes for his chance and when he took it, he almost foiled his entire plan. The moment the archer turned away from the ledge Malik slung his arm over the top and kicked his leg up to haul himself over.

The noise he made drew the archer's attention and he spun around, his face distorted with fear, his dagger drawn. Malik met his gaze evenly, eerily calm despite being discovered, and slowly drew a short knife. The archer righted his stance and chuckled.

"Just what do you think you'll accomplish with one arm?" he asked. "Not much of an assassin, are you? Not much of a man either, I'll wager."

"It doesn't take much of a man to face one such as you," Malik replied quietly, though his chest burned at the insult.

How dare he…he knew nothing of Malik's capabilities,  _nothing_! He knew nothing of what he had gone to get to where he was, all the painful training and the countless sleepless nights, finally losing his younger brother and an arm to attain the lofty position of Dai, and all for early retirement!  _He had no right!_

No matter—Malik would prove himself when his blade plunged into the archer, silencing him forever. He looked for an opening, waited for his opponent to let down his guard before attacking. There, a weakness at his left—he lowered his dominant hand and turned his head for a split second—Malik was on top of him, like a cobra, teeth bared as he struck. Blood spurted in the air as his blade severed an artery within the man's neck.

"ASSAS—," the archer started to scream, before Malik dragged his dagger through his vocal chords. The scream died off into a gurgle and his legs buckled; Malik realized his mistake too late. His leap had propelled the archer too close to the edge of the roof— he reached out, fingers brushing a tunic—but too late as the man lurched backward, his hands clutching at his gushing throat.

Malik dropped to his knees and flattened himself against the roof as a chorus of gasps and screams rose up from the courtyard. He cursed himself as people began shouting and crying, demanding to know who had committed such an atrocity. Stupid, novice mistake! He had let his anger blind him, had misjudged—no,  _completely_   _overlooked_  the distance between the man and the edge. Stupid, foolish,  _novice_ mistake!

The other archers would have surely seen—Malik whipped his head up, preparing to roll to the side to avoid incoming arrows, but he didn't see any of the other four archers. Confused, he rose up on his knees; perhaps they were hiding as well, or…of course! They must have retreated to the ground to provide Almir with additional protection.

Craning his neck, Malik could just see a crowd of people, including the Templars Almir was supposed to meet, all gathered around his last victim. Almir himself, though Malik was familiar with his face from many detailed descriptions, was not among the crowd. Malik cursed yet again, thinking he had lost his target due to his simple (stupid!  _novice!_ ) mistake.

He glanced around the courtyard, heart sinking as he thought about the impact his blunder would have on all of Jerusalem…more importantly to Malik, though, was Altaïr's reaction. He could almost envision those smug, gleaming, golden eyes as the other man folded his arms across his chest in  _that_  way and said, so condescendingly, "I told you so."

The stares of his one-time brothers in Masyaf as they whispered behind his back about his failure, the laughing, the sneering, the  _knowledge_  that their suspicions could be laid to rest on the confirmation of his inefficiency—he couldn't bear it. He was not fit to be an assassin. He was hardly fit for the work of a Dai. He was—movement! Quick and suspicious, a rat stealing out of a cupboard!

Malik jumped to his feet and sprinted across the close knit rooftops, following the figure as it darted down an alleyway. His heart raced as he tried to keep ahead of the person he pursued, letting his instincts guide him. Was it Almir? A man most definitely, judging by the clothes. He tried to catch a glimpse of a face, but to no avail. Finally, after the man made a quick turn, Malik caught sight of a long beard and a large, beak-like nose—Almir. He was not lost after all.


	6. 6

Malik followed the man halfway across the city. Almir was crafty, every bit the jackal he was made out to be. He took every available alley route, doubled back, hid in private gardens, and finally purchased a different tunic and wore it over the one he had on. Malik admired his survival instinct. In any other situation, Almir would have been safe from harm. In any other situation, he'd have made a decent assassin.

Malik waited for him to turn down another alley. He crept along a wooden beam near the spot Almir stopped to rest, leaning against the wall and bending over with his hands on his knees, neck bared…a very dangerous position for a man whose life was just recently threatened. Malik took a deep breath and dropped to the ground to Almir's left, springing upright and withdrawing the short blade strapped to the front of his belt. Almir looked up, disbelief and shock draining the color from his face.

"You!" he cried out, seeing the curved dagger in Malik's hand. "It's not possible! I was so careful!  _No one_  could have followed me!"

"Your attention to your surroundings and your diligence in thwarting any potential pursuers is commendable," Malik agreed, leveling his gaze and his blade at Almir, "but I have tracked men far more skilled than you, and I have found them despite their intelligence. With the right training…well, who knows what you could have become?"

"This is a mistake," Almir whispered feverishly, sweat dripping down his temples and beading his upper lip. He backed away slowly, not realizing he was trapping himself against a dead end. "This is a mistake, you  _can't_  kill me!"

"Accept your fate," Malik said. "Die with honor…else you live with nothing."

A breeze wafted through the alley, cooling the sweat collecting on Malik's brow and rustling his robes; his empty sleeve flapped tellingly and Almir's gaze was drawn to it. His brown eyes narrowed and his brow furrowed.

"Your Master must not think much of me if he sends  _you_  after me," he said, gathering what little courage he could find from Malik's empty sleeve.

"What do you mean?" Malik asked through clenched teeth. He tightened his grip around the leather-bound handle of his blade, ready to deflect should Almir attempt to use his words as a distraction.

"Your arm," Almir replied bluntly. "I would have thought an assassin missing a limb might be…burdensome."

"And what makes you think that?"

"Have  _you_  ever heard of a one-armed assassin?"

Malik growled and lunged forward, swiping his blade upward; metal clashed as Almir drew his sword, blocking a strike at the last minute which would have dealt a mortal blow had it connected. Malik found himself inches away from Almir's smug expression, and it reminded him of Altaïr so much he spit in the man's face and sprung back. Hatred grew in his heart, rose up like some fearsome beast. He didn't know whether he could control it, or even if he  _wanted_  to. Almir laughed and wiped the spittle from his cheek, unaware of Malik's inner conflict.

"Struck a nerve, did I?" he mocked, trailing his sword tip against the ground. "Let me guess: should you succeed in your mission of killing me, bring my severed head back to your masters in their fortress stronghold, you will prove your worth."

"I need prove myself to  _no man_ ," Malik snarled. He dashed forward again and delivered three more strikes which Almir easily blocked. The vibrations the blades made as they connected send numbing shivers down Malik's arm, and from the look on Almir's face he could tell he too felt the strength of their blows. Still, Almir had the upper hand, both hands clenched around the sword handle and his footing sturdy.

Malik stepped back again and adopted a low stance, his blade curved inward, toward his own stomach. For a moment, Almir looked a little confused, as if he had never seen a blade held that way. Malik felt whole with a blade in his hand, any type of blade at all. All he had to do now was calm himself down, remove from his thoughts the anger and hatred for this man who dared insult his honor, his wisdom, and his skill.

"You lie," Almir sneered, gloating, "or else you were sent for an equally pathetic reason. Perhaps this is your masters' way of getting rid of you discreetly, for they have no need of you."

"Shut up!" Malik roared, throwing his knife to the ground and unsheathing his sword. He swung it around, building strength into his attack.

This time, Almir barely managed to deflect the blow, but he was able to counter with a small knife in his left hand, swiping it at Malik's face the moment their blades were lowered. Malik jerked his head back to avoid losing his eye and the blade tip sliced his cheek open instead.

He hissed at the sudden pain, but did not allow it to master him, not while Almir still breathed air. He felt blood trail down his cheek and neck, drip off his chin, but he refused to remove his gaze from his target. Malik saw the other man's hand shake and he noticed a fearful look in his eye. Good; he was worried.

 _As he should be._

Malik attacked again, taking advantage of Almir's hesitation and striking thrice in a row. Almir had no time to counter. It was all he could do to defend, with the force of Malik's blows sending him into a dead end. He tried to lash out again with the small knife, aiming for Malik's throat this time.

Malik raised his arm at the last moment to shield himself and felt the blade bite through the sleeve of his robes and into his arm. Blood soaked his skin and sleeve and he grit his teeth against the pain, refusing to let Almir see him wince or show any other sign of weakness. He'd show the fool what it meant to be an assassin.

"Y-you're not a man!" Almir stuttered as his back hit the dead end wall with a dull thud. Malik said nothing as he advanced.

"I-I'll give you anything you want," he continued, "a-anything at all! Please, spare me!"

"You have nothing I desire," Malik said softly, dropping his sword and unsheathing a small throwing knife from his belt.

Almir, sensing death, panicked and threw his weapon at his attacker, who neatly sidestepped the sharp point intended for his head. Malik drew the knife back and, before Almir could gather his wits to call for help, buried it deep within his soft belly.

"Die with honor," Malik hissed, twisting the blade cruelly, compensation for the pains he received for his troubles. Almir looked at him, eyes pleading, whimpered unintelligibly, and scrabbled at his wrist.

"N-no," he whined, "not s-suppo—sed…t-to end like…like this!"

"You are not the author of your own fate," Malik replied, gently, his anger draining out of him.

He lowered Almir to the ground and removed his blade from the man's stomach. After performing the usual rites assassins granted their targets when time permitted, he rose to his feet and held his arm to his chest, groaning at the pain in his forearm. It took some effort to remove the eagle's feather from his belt and to stain it with Almir's blood; the pain was bad, but nothing he hadn't experienced before.

He took his time making his way back to the Bureau, feeling that the sun would rise long before Navin would be able to tend to his wounds. He slipped through the back door the same as last time, surprising Navin once more behind his counter.

"Safety and peace," Malik greeted tiredly, holding out his feather.

Navin gaped for a moment before accepting the mark, wrapping it in a cloth and then rolling it up with the scroll detailing Almir's character; he would catalogue the assassination later, when Malik was rested enough to recall events clearly.

"Safety, peace, and a job well done," Navin finally congratulated after he found his tongue. "Were you injured at all? I see your cheek…"

"Just my arm," Malik admitted, holding his wrist out to show a blood-stained sleeve. Navin clucked his tongue and ducked down to draw out a large wooden crate filled with bandages and ceramic pots with balms, salves, and other medicines.

"Go sit down," Navin said, nodding to the main chamber.

Malik obeyed mutely, almost dragging his feet he felt so tired. He blamed his inactivity in the previous months, how he barely had the time to train with all the work he had been helping Altaïr with. It was all Altaïr's fault, of course. The main chamber was a welcome sight, with its numerous pillows, all large and soft, lush rugs, and oil lamps burning to give the room a gentle glow. The only thing wrong, as far as Malik could see, was Altaïr, who sat amongst the pillows cleaning his blades.

"I see you have returned mostly alive," he said coolly, not glancing up from his work. Malik just groaned and lowered himself to the floor with a shaking arm. Navin came in seconds later with his box of cures.

"Leave it," Altaïr ordered, "I'll tend to this fool. You have a previous engagement, yes?"

"Yes, Master," Navin said, grateful. He bowed out of the room and left the Bureau in the very capable hands of the Master of Masyaf and a tired, but still living Dai.


	7. 7

Altaïr finished cleaning his hidden blade, making it gleam in the candlelight before dragging the medicine box over. Malik watched with heavily lidded eyes, trying to decipher the curiously blank expression on Altaïr's face. Was he angry? Hurt that he had been left like a whore's bed before sunrise? Malik had no sympathy, if such was the case. Duty came first, before anything, and Altaïr knew this better than most.

"Disrobe."

Malik heard the object of his thoughts' order as a threat, and he winced as he raised his hand to his shoulder, trying to push his robes off. His wrist hurt, ached, and his fingers didn't seem to want to work. He didn't even care enough to undress, truly; he just wanted to rest. Altaïr watched Malik struggle before moving to help, batting his trembling hand away and removing his hood. His eyes widened at the sight of Malik's cheek and the blood staining his skin.

"Why didn't you say sooner that you were injured?" Altaïr demanded angrily, his hands flying to undo the belt buckle and harness around Malik's chest.

"It's just a scratch," Malik insisted, sitting still while Altaïr stripped him down to his waist. He didn't want Altaïr dressing his wounds. He didn't want Altaïr to see he had been injured at all. He'd only fuss. Neither wound was deep or life-threatening, as Malik discovered when Altaïr took his hand and lifted his arm to look at the gash there. Both were just painful and irritating: nothing he wasn't used to.

"Altaïr," Malik said when he made a small, rude noise of disbelief, "I am  _fine_. Almir is dead and I was not seen."

"You do not know that," Altaïr said, gathering a soft wet cloth in hand and dabbing at the wound on Malik's arm.

"True," Malik conceded, watching as the blood washed away, "but I completed my objective. I was  _successful_."

"So it would seem."

"Cryptic words do not suit you. If you have something to say to me, then say it."

Altaïr remained tight-lipped, however, and continued to clean Malik's arm. In the candle light his skin shined with a fine sheen of sweat, probably from the warmth in the air. His hands trembled a bit, Malik noticed as Altaïr rubbed cool salve into the wound. He  _also_  refused to look up. He was hiding something. Malik sighed and closed his hand around Altaïr's wrist before he unrolled the bandages.

"Both of us are too old to be acting as children," Malik said. "Please, my friend, tell me what is bothering you tonight."

Altaïr paused for a moment, rolling the bandage roll around in his palm before continuing to tend to Malik.

"I was worried for you," he finally said. "You left before I awoke."

"I have always been an early riser," Malik assured gently.

"Yes, but…I wish you would have warned me you were setting out."

"So you could follow me?" Malik asked bluntly, staring at Altaïr and daring him to look up and meet his eyes. He received no response and scoffed. "That is why I did not wake you…I wanted to do this on my own."

"You think I would have interfered?" Altaïr asked, winding a long strip of linen around Malik's forearm, making sure the binding was tight.

"I know you too well to fool myself into thinking you wouldn't."

"Turn your head, brother, let me look at this…"

Malik turned his head and, in doing so, caught a glimpse of Altaïr's finely shaped hands, strong and long-fingered. They were still as warm as they had been last night and when Altaïr touched his jaw he shuddered at the memories which rose, unbidden, to the surface of his mind.

The smell of blood was strong as Altaïr began wiping his cheek clean and more than once Malik scrunched his eyes shut at the sharp, stinging pain. Altaïr made no mention of the wounds other than to clean them, and Malik was grateful for his silence on the matter. He had completed his objective, after all, had proven to himself, all of Masyaf, and to Altaïr that he was still worthy of his assassin's robes.

Perhaps things would change. Perhaps Altaïr would trust him more. Perhaps… _perhaps_  they would be able to determine where they stood with one another. Such thoughts reminded Malik of Altaïr's  _other_ promise, that they would talk come morning. It was early evening now, and they had yet to broach upon the subject of last night. Malik winced, thinking Altaïr couldn't possibly hold a grudge over something so trivial, but knowing better.

"Altaïr," he began, wondering how to best word his apology.

"Hm?" the other hummed, not looking away from what his hands were doing. He dipped his cloth in a clear liquid from one of the jars and made to swipe it across the cut on Malik's cheek. The stench was acrid and overpowering.

Malik jerked back out of instinct and caught sight of Altaïr's sleeve; flecks of brown stained the white material and as he focused on the aberration he felt a lurch in his stomach. Though his arm pained him, he grabbed Altaïr around the wrist and forced his hand back so he could look at the suspicious brown spots that looked so familiar.

"Malik, what—" Altaïr started to say. He too glanced down at his sleeve and cut his words short as he caught onto what made Malik act so strangely. He paled and his eyes widened, which only confirmed Malik's suspicions.

He glared and released his hold on Altaïr, who very nearly shied back, but returned Malik's look with an expression of grim determination. Malik shook his head, overcome with disgust and hurt. After everything, after all that had been said,  _especially_  after last night, it all came down to  _this_.

"You followed," Malik accused. It was not a question and Altaïr didn't bother to deny.

"Yes," he said, rubbing his wrist, "of course I did."

Malik drew in a sharp breath, as if he had been struck. Dried blood on his sleeve—he had been careful, discreet. The sweat beading across his forehead and the flush on his cheeks: he had taken the rooftops, most likely, and had run off before Malik had spotted him. It also explained his lack of questioning, and the fact that he hadn't been at all curious. His presence explained the missing archers, at the very least.

Malik knew Altaïr thought he had performed a great favor. Anyone else would be grateful for the assistance. Anyone else would simply bask in the success, shared victory or not. Anyone else would let such a thing slide. But Malik was not just anyone else and he felt a sudden desire to see Altaïr shot through with a dozen arrows.

"Get out," he snapped, holding his injured arm close to his chest. "Get out  _now_!"

"No," Altaïr replied, his tone quiet and steady, throwing Malik off. "I will not allow you to make me a villain! I did nothing wrong."

"Did noth—? You broke your word to me! You promised Almir was mine!"

"And he was. I promised you his life, which you took. I never said anything about archers or guards or—"

"What do you think last night was about?" Malik asked furiously, trying to scoot away from Altaïr, whose mouth fell open at the impromptu confession. He stopped trying to make Malik cooperate, stopped trying to tend to his cheek, stopped everything to look at Malik.

"What do you mean?" he asked, eyes flashing as he tried to reign in his temper and indignation.

"Do not feign ignorance," Malik hissed, "don't you  _dare_  tell me you didn't know what last night was about," He was tired of the deceit, the lying, and the games. Why couldn't Altaïr keep his word just for once? Was it too much to ask of him?

"No," Altaïr yelled back, "I don't know what  _you_  thought about last night! Why don't you tell me?"

"I bed you to get what I wanted," Malik spilled eagerly. "You offered yourself to me and I took advantage of the situation to force a promise out of you while you were too deeply immersed in pleasure to think otherwise of the situation."

Altaïr sat back on his knees, shocked. He blinked and pursed his lips, looking so pitiful Malik couldn't help but hail him with a barrage of new insults.

"What," he sneered, cupping the stump of his left arm almost protectively, "you thought perhaps you could distract me so well as to turn me from my own desires? That your body incited my lust to the point I forgot all else? You are a  _fool_ , Altaïr, a  _fool_  and a pathetic excuse for an assassin. Were Al Mualim alive he'd be disappointed in you once more. How anyone ever got to your position without the grace and guidance of Allah I'll never know. You just can't seem to keep from making novice mistakes, one right after the other.  _Furthermore_ …"

He continued on, building on his anger until he felt his chest might very well explode from the tight pressure in his heart. Altaïr, on the other hand, instead of flying into a rage and entering the argument with Malik, sat still, his gaze focused on his knees. He didn't appear to absorb anything Malik was saying, but remained close-mouthed and expressionless. At a lull in the hurtful tirade he looked up and, seeing Malik in the middle of taking a huge breath with which to continue his nonsense, quickly said his piece.

"Fine, brother," he murmured, lowering his eyes in deference, "fine…you win. You are right. I concede."

That halted the rest of Malik's rant right on the tip of his tongue. For a brief moment he looked as if he might carry on, just because he didn't believe Altaïr. Since when had he ever conceded  _anything_? But no, Malik remained silent, for Altaïr was not finished. He dipped his cloth, which he had been clenching tightly the whole time into a bowl of lukewarm water to rinse it out.

"I do not care if you say you despise me," he said, wringing the water back out. "I made a choice I do not regret. If I am not allowed to provide even the smallest bit of assistance for a man I…I care greatly for, then can I even call myself a friend? I would do it again if—"

"Because you enjoy outclassing me—" Malik interrupted.

"Because I enjoy seeing you alive," Altaïr said sternly, his gaze so harsh and commanding Malik faltered through what else he had wished to say. "Had I not interfered," he continued, leaning forward to press the edge of the cloth to the wound, "you would have died. The archers saw your first kill. Two had their arrows strung; they would have felled you before you were even aware of their aim."

"You lie," Malik said, refusing to believe him. He did not want to admit that he may have not been as diligent as he used to be. He hated to acknowledge even the possibility.

"I would not have stepped in otherwise," Altaïr said, dabbing a bit of dried blood away. "There is no doubt in my mind you are a very capable assassin…but we all make mistakes. It could have happened to any of our number and I would have done the same to ensure their safety."

Malik chewed on the inside of his cheek thoughtfully. Altaïr had changed, for the most part. He had matured greatly over the past year and a half, almost into a different man. He had no real reason to lie, and Malik suspected that his "care" ran deeper than he wanted to admit out loud. Not that he planned on forcing a confession out of him, but it was good to be aware.

Also, he wasn't so bitter that he couldn't recognize his anger for what it was: jealousy, toward Altaïr, for having saved his life when he had tried so very hard to prevent such a thing from happening. Malik knew he was behaving badly for a grown man, and Altaïr's elder. He sighed as Altaïr prepared another cloth with a strong smelling salve.

"Forgive me," he said, "I do not…it has been too long since I last expected anything more than self-serving from you. I was wrong to lash out."

Altaïr shrugged and leaned forward again.

"I have deserved nothing more," he said, pressing the cloth to Malik's cheek.

The harsh sting of the salve made Malik clench his teeth and hiss, but Altaïr was right there, leaning even closer, puckering his lips to blow on the wound. He was so close… Malik stared. How could he not? Another chill ran down his spine as he focused on Altaïr's lips, so fearsome he almost questioned his sanity.

He had spent one night with the man and now he could concentrate on nothing else? It was his expression, he told himself, nothing more. It was that saddened look of reluctant acceptance that Malik couldn't ignore. It was those honey-colored eyes, so brilliant and deadly when he was angry, like an eagle's.

As Altaïr continued to blow on Malik's wound, he didn't notice a hand creeping forward until he felt a tug on his sleeve. Next thing he knew he was pulled forward and into a rough kiss.


	8. 8

Shocked? Yes, yes he was. Pleasantly so? Of course. Confused? Definitely. Regardless, Altaïr did not pull away. He dropped his cloth and cupped Malik's rough cheek, opening his mouth and rolling his tongue against his lips, begging to be granted access. Malik complied, felt Altaïr's tongue against his, and moaned. There was a sense of urgency in their kiss that neither knew how to interpret—the only language they knew was the action of their lips crushing against one another's.

"Altaïr," Malik gasped when Altaïr broke the kiss to trail hot lips down his jaw, "I don't know—I don't think—"

"Don't think," Altaïr murmured against his skin. "Don't try. Just feel. I want you to feel me."

Altaïr pushed Malik back against the pillows and attacked his neck with voracious teeth, his hands everywhere, pinching, caressing, massaging. Malik, who didn't know where to lay his hand at all, settled for blindly undoing the clasps of Altaïr's wide belt.

"Th-this is wrong," he tried again when Altaïr bit his shoulder, worrying the skin into a dark, tooth-marked bruise.

"Then why does it feel so good?" Altaïr countered, grinding his hips slowly, pressing his already stiff length against Malik's stomach. Malik groaned and fought back, the friction of their movements inciting his manhood to harden.

He couldn't argue Altaïr's point: if it was wrong, why did he want it so bad? A hand at his stomach alerted him of Altaïr's attempt to undo the tie of his pants, but he fumbled about too much in his haste and Malik stuck his own hand between their bodies to help. Between the two of them, he lost his pants and Altaïr's tongue descended on his flesh once more.

"Ahh!" Malik cried out, arching his back as his manhood became enveloped by a wet mouth. He clutched at Altaïr's head, pushing his hood back and catching a handful of hair, tugging viciously until he heard himself released with a small, wet pop.

"Stop, stop," he pleaded, trying to push Altaïr back. He was ignored, however, and Altaïr took the head of his prick between his teeth and gently bit down, enjoying Malik's heavy, pleasured groans.

The hand in his hair excited him, the way it pushed and pulled, clenched down and scratched at his scalp, then caressed, slowly. Soft moans and pants filled the air as Malik voiced his pleasure, drawing his legs up to clench around Altaïr's shoulders. It was nothing like last night, the slow, sensual love-making, the exploration, the naiveté. This was harsh love, brutal, unrelenting…it was too much to bear.

"Altaïr," Malik breathed, writhing around, "Altaïr, p-please, bro—ther. Ah! Yes, don't stop…"

But he did stop, with a wicked grin that made Malik's blood run cold. Altaïr stuck two fingers in his mouth and wet them thoroughly, taking his time and letting Malik watch with wide eyes. Still recovering from the sudden loss of Altaïr's  _very_  talented tongue, it took him a moment to realize what was going on, and it was only when he felt those fingers searching far between his legs, pressing against his rear, that he reacted.

"No!" he said, trying to scoot back, not wanting that. Altaïr wrapped his arms around Malik's legs and drew him into his lap.

"Trust me," he said with a grin, and Malik shook his head vehemently.

"I will not!"

Altaïr chuckled and leaned in for a kiss, bending Malik's knees to his chest; he had always been flexible.

" _Learn_  to trust me," he requested after parting lips. "Please, I will not hurt you."

"You already have," Malik murmured back, the sensations of hot breath across his cheek and insistent rocking against his backside intoxicating.

"Then let me care for you."

"I…would not know how."

"Just relax. And  _trust_."

Malik looked into Altaïr's eyes and found only truth and desire. No malice, no desire for revenge, no anger, nothing; just warmth and a strange longing Malik couldn't decide whether to be comfortable with or not. In the end, he closed his eyes and nodded slowly.

Altaïr wet his fingers again, spitting on them for good measure. Malik held his breath as he felt a hand probing him again, then flinched as a finger touched the tight ring of muscle he had denied Altaïr last night.

"Do not tense," Altaïr instructed, trying not to laugh.

"You try not tensing!" Malik snapped, shifting his legs against Altaïr's shoulders and wishing he'd take his robes off. "Perhaps we should stop…"

"You are like a virgin."

"I am  _not_!"

"Yes you are! I will be your first in this manner, will I not?"

"You are insufferable and— _ahh_!" Malik cried as Altaïr slid one finger into him. The expression on his face was laughable, full of surprise and indignation and a twinge of pain. Altaïr wriggled his finger, slid it in halfway and waited for Malik to stop appearing as if he were about to die.

"This is wrong," Malik said again, panic on the edge of his tone. He clutched at Altaïr's thigh, fisting his robes and twisting the material cruelly.

"That is not what you said last night," Altaïr teased, crooking his finger. Malik immediately hissed and arched his back in response.

"Argh!" he groaned, clenching his teeth. Altaïr watched, fascinated, and slid his finger deeper. Hot, virgin muscle tensed around his digit, making him think about the same pressure around his stiff prick. He quickly added his second finger, wanting to hurry up and be done with it. Malik smacked his palm against Altaïr's thigh at the added finger, cursing loudly.

"Damn you!" he snarled. "Always too impatient!"

"Shhh," Altaïr soothed, beginning to work his fingers back and forth, "do not shout! Do you want to be discovered?"

Malik clamped his lips together in a thin, angry line and ground his teeth together as Altaïr thrust against him. It hurt, not unlike what he had expected, but there was also a sense of something  _more_ , something hadn't quite been reached. Malik squirmed against Altaïr's hand, impatient and inquisitive. Altaïr smirked and slid both fingers in up to his knuckle, and then curled them both. Malik opened his mouth and cried out, arching his back.

 _There_. That was it! That was the spot he had been trying to reach. The pain faded into a distant memory as the pleasure took over, and soon Malik panted Altaïr's name and asked, in halting language, for more, and deeper.

Altaïr's other hand squeezed Malik's manhood in time with the thrusting of his fingers, pleasuring him so he wouldn't complain too loudly when it came time to enter him. Malik could scarcely stand it. He moaned freely, uncaring as to who might hear him through the open roof of the Bureau. He  _wanted_  all of Jerusalem to know of the pleasure he received.

Tossing his head back and forth, sweating and murmuring Altaïr's name, he tried to press himself further against those fingers. It was easy for Malik to forget his earlier trepidation. How could he have refused? Knowing that it felt like  _this_ , that it made him want to  _scream_? He did not know.

"I-I want to—to feel you!" he panted, covering Altaïr's hand with his in order to stop the rough pumping which would have him spilling his seed before he was ready.

"You already do," Altaïr said, his tone edgy and harsh, restrained. Still, he withdrew his fingers and all but ripped his hood and tunic off, throwing them to the side to fumble with his pants and pushing them down just far enough to free his aching erection. It bobbed for a moment before he caught it in his fist, groaning when he squeezed.

"Ah," he said, "you do not know how badly I've desired this."

"Then silence your tongue and busy your prick before I  _make_  you!" Malik retorted impatiently.

Altaïr bit back a laugh and spit into his palm to lather himself up. Malik watched him slick his member until it dripped with saliva, his feelings of unease returning. However, his desire far outweighed his hesitation, and when he felt the head of Altaïr's shaft press against his entrance, he did not flinch.

Altaïr sat up on his knees and wrapped his arms around Malik's thighs, feeling the leather of his boots against his neck and not caring. He watched the tip of his member disappear, holding his breath as he thrust his hips just enough to push past the tight ring of muscle.

Malik grit his teeth at the new intrusion, feeling the pain more acutely than the fingers. Altaïr, though not especially large, was nonetheless thick and even by inching his way forward as gently as possible he was met with fiery oaths and abuse.

"Relax your back," he coached when Malik placed a hand against his stomach to prevent him from moving forward. "You're too stiff."

Malik inhaled deeply to keep from punching Altaïr and willed his muscles to relax; the moment he did so, he felt a change in the way Altaïr moved, the way he moaned and closed his eyes, thrusting more of his prick within. Malik groaned as well and his nails sought purchase against hardened stomach. Hips met and both men shuddered at the sensation, gasping softly in tune with one another; Altaïr, because of the tightness surrounding his shaft, and Malik due to the wonderful sensation of fullness that he could scarcely describe.

His legs were bent at an odd angle against Altaïr's shoulders and his cheeks burned with secret indignity at being taken on his back like a woman…but the expression on Altaïr's face was worth every second. He looked so at peace, so happy and pleased with himself, so  _comforted_  that Malik could scarcely imagine telling him 'no.' It was then he realized, with a sharp pang in his chest, just how much he'd do to see Altaïr look that way again.

On a whim, Malik reached up and hooked his hand around the back of Altaïr's neck, twining his fingers into short-cropped hair.

"Take me," he commanded, staring into bright golden eyes and feeling another lurch in his stomach that choked his heart as well.

Altaïr bent down for a desperately hot kiss and began to move his hips. His movements were no longer colored with inexperience: every thrust, every slow undulation made Malik cry out, made him scratch Altaïr's shoulder and chest and leave angry red marks.

Hot, rough pants filled the air, along with exclamations of pleasure and frequent requests for more, and harder, and faster. Malik felt his toes curl within his boots as Altaïr took his manhood in hand once more, pleasuring him to rush his release.

"Ah—Altaïr," he said, gulping, "i-if you keep—doing that, th-this will be over t-too soon."

Perhaps the wrong thing to say, Altaïr only clenched his fist tighter and jerked more fiercely, almost in time with his heavy thrusts. Sweat beaded across his brow and dripped down his neck to his shoulder, where Malik had scratched him.

Malik kept moving his hand from shoulder to chest, to pillow to the hand pleasuring his member. He groaned loudly and arched his back, pressing himself closer and closer to Altaïr, meeting his thrusts.

They were so close, the both of them, and when he felt himself ready to come, Altaïr hunched over Malik and kissed him ferociously. Malik wrapped his arm around Altaïr's neck to hold him in place, feeling his own release creep up on him like a thief in the night to steal his breath away.

He yelled as he spilled his seed against his stomach and Altaïr's, realizing too late that Altaïr had already experienced his own release within, pressing closer so insistently that it felt as if he were trying to make his way  _through_.

" _Unh_ ," he grunted, pressing his face into Malik's neck, "unh, Malik…hah…hah, yes…"

Malik hugged Altaïr to him until he slumped over, limp and boneless from his release. He felt a rough chin nudge his neck, followed by warm lips kissing and nibbling. Malik clutched the back of Altaïr's head, still shivering with pleasure. His whole body was numb with an enjoyable tingling which spread throughout his entire back and down his arms and legs.

He lay there with Altaïr on top of him, suffocating from the weight and the warmth. He felt Altaïr's manhood soften from within, the strangest sensation ever, and he knew that truly, no matter what happened from that point onward, he could no longer ignore the possibility of Altaïr being more than a friend and leader.

"What would have me say now?" Malik asked after some silent time had passed, rubbing his hand along Altaïr's back. Altaïr sat up and kissed Malik deeply, almost insistently.

"Say nothing," he said, "just stay."

"You would not have me beg for forgiveness?" Malik asked, surprised. "You wouldn't demand some sort of penance?"

"You  _would_  expect that of me," Altaïr chuckled, rolling off Malik to fix his pants. He grabbed a fresh cloth from the medicine box and wiped himself clean before handing it to Malik for him to do the same.

"I need no apology from you," Altaïr explained. "You were…you were right to be angry…I can't say that I wouldn't have attempted the same had I been in your place."

"Nevertheless," Malik said, tossing the soiled cloth to the ground, "I  _am_  sorry. It was wrong of me to misuse you, especially considering your feelings."

"And just what are my feelings?" Altaïr asked, his expression a perfect deadpan. Malik blinked and frowned, flushing hard.

Had he misread Altaïr's intentions? All his expressions, which pointed toward an emotion stronger than brotherly concern, were they all just a lie? He felt embarrassed at the odds of having misunderstood, and when he opened his mouth to explain, he found himself stuttering.

"I-I just thought that, that perhaps you h-had designs other th-than lustful," Malik said, tripping over his suddenly thick tongue. Altaïr just stared back, those golden eyes unusually perceptive and frightfully judgmental. Malik's stomach plunged to his knees and his heart seemed to stop.

"I had thought you…that you cared," he whispered, hurt that he had been wrong.

It struck him then, that without Altaïr's approval, without his affection, he would be unable to justify his own feelings of guilt. Why had he felt guilty? Because he had not wanted to see Altaïr looking so hurt over his cruel confession. Why had he consented again, just moments ago? For Altaïr, to wipe the sorrow away and to see that expression of happiness take over his countenance once more.

Why had he come to Jerusalem in the first place? Not for Almir, and certainly not for himself. No, he had done it all for Altaïr, the only one within all of Masyaf whose opinion truly mattered, the only one Malik felt a deep connection to.

True, it was a connection born out of hatred and a lust for revenge, but it had intertwined the two of them and, slowly, evolved into a bond held together through brotherhood and loyalty, pain, respect, and, eventually, grudging affection. Malik needed Altaïr, just as Altaïr needed him.  _That_  was why he had followed him all the way to Jerusalem.  _That_  was why he had given Malik his body the other night.

Malik paled as his realization came to pass, staring at Altaïr with wide, glassy eyes that immediately gave cause for worry. Altaïr scooted closer and cupped Malik's jaw.

"Safety and peace, Dai," he said loudly, "I was only teasing. I have already made my feelings for you very clear."

Malik snapped out of his little trance and smacked Altaïr's hand away, glaring and snapping, "You might have fooled me!"

Altaïr smirked and shook his head, bemused with Malik's attitude. He got to his feet and padded out of the room, returning only a moment later with a large blanket. He tossed it at Malik, who caught it and began unfolding it. Altaïr back down, close by, and pulled one end of the blanket over his legs.

"Your wounds need time to heal," he said. "Get some rest, and we'll talk come morning."

"If I'm still here when you find time to raise your lazy head," Malik said, still peevish over being tricked.

Altaïr pressed a kiss to the back of Malik's neck as he rolled onto his side and quickly took up the closest spot behind. He felt a thick arm encircle his waist and sighed, not minding it so much.

"What are we?" Malik asked, after the silence became too heavy for him to bear. "Us, I mean. Am I your…your what?"

"You are what you have always been to me," Altaïr sounded tiredly, "and that is, and always shall be, a true friend, closer than a brother. You are the better half of the man I hope to someday become."

Malik shuddered at those words and swallowed thickly.

"You speak in riddles," he complained, though he didn't half mean it.

"Shall I call you my lover then, so I may go to sleep?"

Malik scoffed but fell silent, relaxing into Altaïr's embrace and allowing his defenses to lower. Sleep, while refusing to come easily, did eventually find its way to Malik, and while he slept, he dreamed of being somewhere safe, where he had no worries, and fewer troubles. It was one of the most refreshing nights he had in a long time.


	9. 9

Malik awoke alone with the blanket thrown up to his chin and his folded Dai robes next to him. Altaïr was nowhere to be seen, but noises emanating from the connecting room bade Malik to get up and investigate.

He groaned as he sat up, pain flaring through his lower back. His arm throbbed as well and his cheek felt numb. Cursing Altaïr roundly, he pulled himself together and slid the rest of his clothes on. Had he know how badly he would ache, he never would have allowed last night to happen the way it did.

Limping, he shuffled into the next room, expecting to see Altaïr lounging at the counter, perhaps with some insufferable smile or witty comment. Malik failed to hide his shock and disappointment when Navin, not Altaïr, looked up and saluted him with a grin.

"Good morning!" he greeted cheerfully, closing the large tome before him. "How do you feel today? Well?"

"Yes, fine," Malik sighed, grimacing a bit as he walked toward the counter.

"Did you injure your leg?" Navin asked, concern lacing his voice. "You are limp—"

"No, I am fine," Malik hurried to insist. "Just a few sore muscles from the fight, that's all. Is Altaïr still here?"

Navin nodded and dug another tome out from beneath the counter, one Malik recognized as the ledger in which all events pertaining to the Creed were documented. "He left an hour ago," Navin said, flipping through the volume to a blank page.

"He said he had some business to attend to, but he would be back before midday and for me to allow you to sleep for as long as you liked."

"Did he say anything more about this pressing 'business' he had to attend?" Malik asked, moving to the far corner of the room and easing himself onto the pillow by the Senet board. Navin followed, the book in his arms and an ink laden quill between his teeth.

"No," he said, once situated, "he mentioned only the rich district, so I am sure he is on his own agenda. Are you ready to tell me of yesterday?"

Malik nodded and began to tell of Almir and how the investigations had gone. He left out important details, mainly that Altaïr had saved his life. Navin did not need to hear of that and Malik's pride would not allow him to reveal his shameful secret. Let the boy believe the falsehood; he was hurting no one with his small lie.

Navin wrote diligently, often asking Malik to expound or speak slowly, to clarify and explain. His quill scratched away until three pages later, when he placed the folded parchment with the bloody feather in the crease of the book and snapped it shut. "Will you be staying?" Navin asked, stretching his arms above his head.

"Yes," Malik said, "I have no reason to hurry back to Masyaf. I'll remain here for at least a couple days to give my arm time to heal."

"You might remain longer yet," Altaïr said, stepping into the room. Malik and Navin startled; they hadn't heard him enter the Bureau. The moment Malik met that bright gaze, his cheeks flushed and he pursed his lips.

"What do you mean?" Navin asked, looking back and forth between the two, confused. Altaïr crossed the room and sat down by Malik.

"I have someone for you to take care of," he said, taking a scroll from a pouch on his belt. Unrolling the parchment, he began to read, ignoring the shocked looks he received.

"Abdul-Qahhar Muhammed threatens to ambush trade caravans approaching the city until his demands are met. As this would no doubt cause problems with the current supply shortages, Abdul-Qahhar needs to be stopped before he is given the chance to carry out his threats. The next caravan will be due by the end of the week; eliminate your target before then and a reward will be given. It is signed by Saladin himself…"

"Wait," Navin said, "we have never before accepted payment for an assassination, nor have we ever accepted a contract from anyone outside the Bureau."

"I am aware of this," Altaïr sighed, "but perhaps it is time for a change to take place; the reward, be it gold or goods, would come in handy. Masyaf needs supplies to rebuild all that was lost in Al Mualim's betrayal—I see no wrong with accepting this contract."

"And you would give such a weighty assignment to  _Malik_?"

" _Master_  Malik has proven himself very capable," Altaïr said sternly. "I am confident in his abilities as an assassin. Why shouldn't he take this assignment?"

Malik sat in stunned silence, staring at Altaïr so fiercely it was a wonder he didn't burn holes through him. He didn't dare believe it. He didn't want to, for what would happen if he got his hopes up only to have them dashed when Altaïr changed his mind? Malik knew he would not be able to bear the pain, anger, and hurt of the disappointment. Navin seemed to think along the same lines and chuckled nervously.

"Surely you jest," he said, "Mali—erm, the  _Dai_  is not fit for another attempt so soon after his first. He must rest."

"And so he shall," Altaïr agreed, "but as soon as he is able, I should like for him to carry out this task for me, as I will be returning to Masyaf in a couple days."

"Altaïr," Malik murmured, "please, brother, do not toy with me. I cannot bear it."

"I am not toying with you," Altaïr assured with a smile. Malik frowned suspiciously, still not trusting, and Navin cleared his throat.

"If he is recovered enough within the next few days," Navin said, getting to his feet, "then I shall have no complaints of his assumption of this target. It is best if he does not overexert himself, though."

"This will be an easy target," Altaïr said, an undercurrent of confidence in his voice. "Why don't you go home to your wife and babe? It is still early and I am sure they would welcome a day in which to keep you all to themselves."

"You have been most eager to get rid of me the past couple days," Navin mused. "What mischief do you get up to while I'm gone?"

"Rutting like animals," Altaïr said, his voice and expression so serious Malik's jaw dropped open in a silent gasp. Icy fear gripped his heart, but Navin threw his head back and laughed uproariously, unaware the "joke" was closer to the truth than Malik would wanted known.

"Just don't leave a mess, sodomite," he warned, a smile still on his face as he left.

The moment Malik was sure the Rafiq was gone, he punched Altaïr in the arm as hard as he could.

"Are you  _trying_  to give us away?" he hissed angrily, his dark eyes flashing. Altaïr just grinned, like a fool, and rubbed his abused limb.

"You are so…," Malik began to say, shaking his head. He couldn't find adequate words to express his displeasure, though, and simply turned his head away. The man was  _insufferable_. A hand on the back of his neck made him tense and Altaïr's hot breath blasted against his ear.

"You worry too much," he whispered huskily, forcing a chill down Malik's spine. "You worry and nag like a woman."

"I do  _not_!" Malik snapped.

"Ah, but you played the part of one very well last night, when I had you on your back and squealing my name."

"I am  _not_  the woman!" Malik growled. Altaïr pressed his lips to his cheek and lingered for a moment; Malik's ire remained, but did not grow, and he flushed again.

"Stop it," he said, though his words held little conviction. "Suppose Navin returns and sees us?"

"He will say nothing."

"You do not know that."

"Yes, I  _do_."

"Why give me the contract?" Malik asked, pushing Altaïr's hand away from his neck and looking at him, his gaze sharp and questioning.

"To prove myself to you," Altaïr responded immediately. "To prove that I care. I only want for your happiness, my brother. If that means allowing you on missions, then I will concede. My only stipulation is that they are not too frequent. I prefer to have you with me at Masyaf, rebuilding our great city, than out in the field, chasing after Templars and rogues."

"Is it always going to be like this?" Malik asked, changing the subject, though within he felt his heart might burst from his chest from joy.

"Would you have it any other way?" came the smug reply. Malik smirked and turned toward Altaïr, who leaned in expectantly.

"Yes," he said, reveling in the way Altaïr's smile faltered.

"And what would you change, Dai?"

"Your obnoxious snoring, Master Assassin."


End file.
